


Mine by Right

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love, エル･アルコン－鷹－ | El Halcon -The Falcon- (Manga), 七つの海七つの空 | Nanatsu no Umi Nanatsu no Sora | Seven Seas Seven Skies (Manga)
Genre: M/M, The Man in Purple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:07:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's ancestor, Benedict Red, the first Earl of Gloria, was a patron of artists and a collector of their works. Dorian may not have been the first of the Earls of Gloria to take an interest in 'The Man in Purple'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: 1590

**Author's Note:**

> Benedict Red - or Luminous Red Benedict, if you prefer - and Tyrian Persimmon were created by Yasuko Aoike and they belong to her, and to her stories 'Seven Seas, Seven Skies' and 'El Halcon'. This work of fiction borrows Benedict and Tyrian. The other characters are created for the story.

  


  


Hendrik van der Heyden is his name. His portrait of the Queen is the talk of London. 

Along with the largest gathering of courtiers seen at Whitehall for many months, I was at Court the day the painting was presented to Her Majesty. Quite an occasion. The chamber was full, everyone agog to see the Queen’s reaction to this latest attempt by a mortal painter to capture the Divine Gloriana on canvas. 

I was mightily impressed.

Van der Heyden was said to employ a new technique, in which he spends time with his subject observing closely before he ever puts brush to canvas. This is to distil the essence of the person he is painting, he says. It certainly worked with Her Majesty the Queen. The portrait shows her as she is: a woman of mature years, still handsome in her way, and with eyes that glitter with shrewd intelligence. It is Gloriana to the life.

The Queen liked it. 

The Earl of Essex, who had commissioned the portrait, was relieved – you could see that – and now, everyone heaps accolades on him, praising his taste and good judgement in engaging Master van der Heyden for the job.

On the strength of it, I decided to engage him myself.

“So. Your verdict, Lord Gloria? Is it to your liking?” Van der Heyden stands beside the finished portrait, looking pleased with his work.

I gaze critically at my likeness.

Technically, his work is brilliant. The crimson velvet of the doublet, the gold lace, the fine lawn collar – if I reached out to touch them, I would expect to feel fabric instead of paint. The delicate white and crimson plumes on the hat look ready to lift in the breeze. The luminous pearl earring seems to glow from within.

The Other Benedict, the one in the portrait, looks back at me. A measuring gaze. The blue eyes have a sharpness to them; it’s a look that cuts through pretence and affectation, a directness that doesn’t quite match the modish clothes and expensive jewellery.

Is this what others see when they look at me? 

“Your Lordship is a good subject, if I may be bold enough to say so.” There’s no flattery in van der Heyden’s voice, only the flat statement of fact. “Good bone structure, health and vigour; these translate well. Painted complexions and dyed horsehair wigs are more difficult.”

I glance at him, wondering if he’s referring to the Queen, then shift my attention back to the painting on the easel. 

The man in the painting compels the eye: a handsome face, stylish clothing. It’s an image that speaks of wealth and position. A man to be reckoned with. Van der Heyden has done exactly what I commissioned him to do. 

I turn to him and smile. “Master van der Heyden, your work is superlative. I’m very pleased with it.”

Van der Heyden smiles back, and watches me with keen eyes. 

I look again at the portrait. The Other Benedict’s eyes lock onto mine once more – steely, penetrating, perceptive. 

“Does something trouble you about the work, my lord?” van der Heyden asks. 

“No, but—” I pause, searching for the right words. “Your portrait of the Queen. You showed her likeness accurately. Some other Royal portraits have flattered her by erasing the lines on her face and pretending her skin is plump and smooth. You didn’t do that. You showed us what she looks like now, but you showed us more. You showed us her intelligence. Her judgement.”

“Yes.” Van der Heyden looks at me gravely. “If I am to be honest in my work, I must paint what I see. When I look at the Queen, I see a woman no longer young, but with a mind that shines like a sword-blade.” He smiles faintly. “And you will not ask, but I will tell you: when I look at you, my lord, I see a man of beauty and elegance. Those qualities may lead some to underestimate you, but you have been a commander of men, and you have a natural ability to see through sham and deceit. Not everybody sees this, I think; but I do.”

We regard each other for a silent moment. 

Van der Heyden rubs his hands together, businesslike. “Would you like me to have the portrait framed, Lord Gloria? Yes? Then please, come this way. I can show you some framed paintings of mine and you can choose the style of frame you wish to have.”

I follow him, noting as we pass through the rooms that his house is richly furnished. Painting portraits of the wealthy and powerful has earned him a good living. Well, he deserves to live comfortably for his labours. He has talent and insight, and in the weeks I sat for him I learned that he’s a plain-speaking man not fond of pretension. 

“The portrait will hang in the entrance hall at Castle Gloria,” I say as we enter a room at the rear of the house. “A frame that flatters the portrait – gilt I think –”

I stop.

The walls are hung with van der Heyden’s work: landscapes, portraits, a family group, a pair of greyhounds. A dozen paintings or more, elegantly framed – but all my attention is caught by the large portrait on the back wall. 

I can scarcely breathe.

The man is richly clothed – a cloak of purple velvet, a purple brocade doublet. He holds a sword, a plain weapon meant for practical use. His gaze turns to the side, his eyes steady and fearless and enigmatic – green as the emerald clasp at his throat.

_Tyrian._

I turn to the artist. “Master van der Heyden – this painting. The man in the purple cloak—”

Van der Heyden looks pleased to talk about his work. “I painted this while I lived in the Holy Roman Empire, before coming to England,” he says. “A commission from a young wife’s family. The husband—” he gestures at the painting— “was often away at sea. His wife wished to have his likeness to keep her company during his absence.”

Jealously stabs through my guts. 

We were in Syracuse when Tyrian told me he’d married. Our ships lay at anchor together in the harbour. We’d taken a room at a dockside inn, and locked ourselves in with a flagon of good wine. “You should know this: I’ve married the daughter of Bartolome Farnese,” he said, sounding careless. We fought. Noisily. More noisily than we’d made love not half an hour before. The landlord broke the door down, and found us there naked with our daggers at each other’s throats. He threw us out. We stood in the street, hastily dressed, dishevelled, glaring at each other with murderous eyes – and then Tyrian took me back to his ship and we shut ourselves in his cabin. When I left his ship two days later, I had no doubt where his heart lay. I felt almost sorry for his young wife. 

I pull myself out of my reverie. “Why do you have the portrait here? Did they not want it after it was finished?”

Van der Heyden shrugs. “The husband died later in battle. His wife was grief-stricken, but she needed money. I felt sorry for her, alone with a small boy to bring up. I bought the painting back for what they paid me, and brought it with me when I came to England.”

The stab of jealousy is smaller this time.

I face the painter, determined. “Sell it to me, Master van der Heyden.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Sell it to you? Why would you want a painting of a stranger?”

“It’s a fine example of your work,” I say, dissembling. “I would be proud to hang it in Castle Gloria.”

Van der Heyden shrugs again, and names a price.

“Very well,” I say, “I will pay you for both paintings when I return to collect my own portrait.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He looks at me again, eyes curious, searching. He says, “Lord Gloria, I have a talent for reading people. It helps me to paint better portraits. In all the time I have used this technique, there is only one man I have not been able to read.” He glances at the portrait of Tyrian. “Captain Persimmon was a man who could keep his true thoughts and feelings hidden, if he wanted to do so. The hearts and souls of most men are like an open book to me, but his heart seemed to me like a locked box. And whatever was in that box, I would wager it was not love for his wife. I don’t know if she knew that.”

I don’t reply. 

Van der Heyden smiles. “The frame—?”

I turn once again to the portrait of Tyrian. “Like this,” I tell the painter. “Make the frame a copy of this one.”

He nods. “Return in a week, then, my lord; I will have both paintings ready for you.”


	2. Part Two: 1597

Two footmen hoist the picture up and hang it beside mine. Side by side, our portraits now dominate the wall of Castle Gloria’s grand entrance hall: the Earl of Gloria, and his newly-wedded wife, Lady Catherine.

Catherine is pleased with her portrait, and can’t keep from smiling. Master van der Heyden has captured her fresh blonde beauty to perfection. His way of seeing beyond the surface has caused him to paint her with a humorous, knowing quirk to her pretty pink lips: _I know more than I’m letting on_ , her expression suggests. Catherine’s a perceptive woman. It’s one of the things that made me love her.

“Master van der Heyden, I’m indebted to you once again.” I smile heartily at the painter. “In a few years, I’ll call you back to paint a family portrait – of my wife and myself with our children.”

“I would be proud to do it. I wish you long life and happiness together, my lord, my lady. Long life, happiness, and many healthy children.” 

The three of us bask in mutual appreciation, and then turn back to admire the new portrait again.

I like van der Heyden, and I like his work. Two more of his paintings hang in the entrance hall: a view of the Castle itself, and a painting of a favourite horse. The horse is shown in the conventional way, with a liveried groom holding his bridle. The groom was a lad called Luke; I was rather fond of him for a time. He no longer works here. I still have the horse.

“I should be flattered that you hang so many of my paintings in your grand hallway,” van der Heyden is saying. “I am much obliged for your patronage, Lord Gloria.”

Catherine says, “Your work is superb, Master van der Heyden; we are honoured to be able to show it to our guests.”

Van der Heyden sketches a shallow bow of acknowledgement. 

“My husband has another of your paintings, which he hangs in his library,” my wife continues. “A foreign grandee, I believe.”

I see van der Heyden blink. Perhaps he thought I would hide that painting from my wife. I think he suspects that I had more reason to buy it than liking his talent as a painter. 

“Ah, yes. ‘The Man in Purple.’ The Earl was kind enough to buy it from me early in our acquaintance.” 

Catherine smiles, her mouth quirking in the same manner as in the portrait. “Most men hang their houses with paintings of their families and their estates. My husband collects paintings for their own sake.”

Van der Heyden takes his leave. Now that we are in private, Catherine slips her arm around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder as we look up at her picture.

“Is that how you see me, Benedict?”

“Beautiful?”

She makes an impatient noise. “No, _husband!_ I mean with that knowing smirk on my face.”

I laugh. “To be truthful, Catherine – yes. Although I wouldn’t call it a smirk – it’s far too pretty to be called by such an unattractive name. You usually know exactly what’s going on. You’re clever. Our children won’t be able to fool you at all. And it makes you impossible to flatter.”

“What do you mean?”

“How can I flatter a woman who can’t be lied to?”

Catherine rolls her eyes. “Benedict, _my lord_ , you are impossible.” But she is pleased all the same.

It’s true, I muse, as I watch her climb the stairs on her way to her music room. She is impossible to lie to. Master van der Heyden might be surprised to learn how well my wife knows me.

  



	3. Part Three: 1605

John Pigeon has been in my service ever since we last went to sea. He was my First Mate aboard the _Prometheus,_ and he still wears his hair pulled back in a sailor’s queue. Now, he is leaning in at my door as I sit in my library, reading.

“There’s someone riding up the lane toward the Castle,” he says.

Together, we stand at the window and look down the slope of the hill where a rider approaches. A visitor coming to pay his respects? A petitioner hoping for employment or patronage? A messenger from Court? 

“Go down and meet him. I’ll see him unless you decide he should be sent away.”

“Very good, m’lord.” Pigeon goes downstairs. 

I wait, and then go down to see for myself. 

The man stands in the entrance hall with his back to the stairs. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. He wears a sturdy travelling cloak; perhaps he has journeyed a long way. He hears my footfall on the stairs, and turns – and I stop, not quite believing what I see.

I am looking into the eyes of Tyrian Persimmon.

 _No, of course not_ – but the resemblance is strong.

He’s young. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty. The arrogant tilt of his head and the self-assured steadiness of his gaze are Tyrian’s, but his face is softer.

The visitor bows, elegant and graceful, then straightens up to look me in the eye. “My lord the Earl of Gloria?” he asks. 

“Yes. Welcome to Castle Gloria. You are—?”

“I am Alejandro Persimmon von dem Eberbach, my lord. I believe you knew my father.”

For a moment, the world stops. I become watchful, thankful that Catherine is in London with the children. Half the servants have gone with her, but those who are left can be relied on if there’s trouble.

The visitor wears a friendly expression, but I’m on my guard. Over his shoulder, I see John Pigeon lingering in the shadows. Pigeon would have seen the resemblance, and is on the alert for danger. I see him checking for the dagger he keeps tucked into his belt at the small of his back.

I focus on the visitor. _‘Knew my father’,_ he said, not _‘Killed my father.’_ Perhaps he doesn’t know.

I smile hospitably. “Please. Sit. Rest after your journey.” I indicate comfortable benches in a corner of the hallway. I can reach a weapon quickly there from a rack on the wall.

We sit. “Would you like some refreshment? Wine, perhaps?”

Alejandro Persimmon shakes his head. “No, thank you, my lord. I require nothing.”

“Have you journeyed far?”

“From the lands of the Elector Palatine. I have lately inherited our estate there.”

I incline my head politely in acknowledgement of his loss and his gain.

“My stepfather’s lands,” he adds. “There were no other children. I was his heir.”

“Your mother?” I inquire.

“Dead these five years, my lord.”

I try to remember what her name was. Tyrian told me once, I know, but to me she was only ‘the daughter of Bartolome Farnese’, and an irritation.

“Lord Gloria, I know very little about my father. I was a small child when he died; I don’t remember him at all. My mother didn’t speak about him often, and then when she married my stepfather – well, he was not mentioned much after that. She did tell me he was a ship’s captain, and that he sailed with the Spanish Navy in the wars and was killed in battle at sea. She also told me that he had his portrait painted by the great Master Hendrik van der Heyden, but she’d had to sell it after my father died because we needed money. After I inherited my lands, I made inquiries, and I learned the names of some of my father’s friends, yours amongst them. In time, with more inquiries, I heard that you own my father’s portrait.”

He waits.

Why deny it? A man who had come here for revenge would have given himself away by now. Alejandro Persimmon shows no sign that he has come seeking blood.

“Yes. I do own the portrait. Master van der Heyden sold it to me himself. I’m a collector of his works. As you see, several of his paintings hang in this hall.” 

Alejandro looks up. My own portrait, and Catherine’s; our family portrait with our three children; the castle, and the horse. He nods. “You have taste, my lord.”

A pause.

“My lord,” Alejandro says, “I don’t even know what my father looked like. I would like to see the portrait, if I may.”

I stand. I notice that Pigeon is still lurking in the shadows, just through a doorway, in case something goes wrong. 

“I would be pleased to show it to you, Master Persimmon. Please – come this way.”

We enter the library, and Alejandro stands beneath the portrait without speaking, looking up at the image of the father he never knew.

I stand to one side and watch him. He’s very much like Tyrian: the height, the green eyes, the strong profile.

Alejandro turns to face me squarely, as once I faced Hendrik van der Heyden. “Lord Gloria, would you sell me this painting?”

_No. Not that. I lost Tyrian. I can’t lose his portrait too._

“The painting is not for sale.”

“I would pay whatever price you name, Lord Gloria.”

“It’s not a question of price, Master Persimmon. The painting is not for sale. I’m a collector of van der Heyden’s works; this painting is a key piece in the collection. I’m sorry.”

A small line of tension appears between Alejandro’s brows, but he keeps his voice steady. “My lord,” he says, “this is a portrait of my father. It should be mine by right.”

“The painting is not for sale,” I say again, firmly. “To anyone. Under any circumstances.”

There is a moment of silence, as Alejandro Persimmon and I regard each other intently.

Alejandro is the first to speak. “Well, then, my lord – I will take my leave of you. But I will return tomorrow, in the hope that you may have changed your mind.”

I show him out. He mounts his horse and rides away.

John Pigeon and I watch from an upstairs window as he disappears down the lane. 

“He’ll be back, m’lord,” Pigeon says.

“Yes. He will.”

“D’you want me to refuse him entry when he comes back?”

I consider. 

“No. Let him in. I’ll see him.” 

I don’t want to make an enemy of Tyrian’s son.

.  
.

That night, I sit in my library with a jug of sherris sack, thinking about times long past and about the son Tyrian left behind. He will come back, and he will ask me again to sell him the painting of his father. How will I answer him? I don’t want to sell it. I wouldn’t sell it to any other man on earth; why would I sell it to him?

I pour another cup of sack. 

I’ve had much good fortune in my life. I’ve become a rich man, through my own labours and through influential connections. I have friends in high places, and a son to carry on my name and title. I have these things because I survived the wars. I survived, and Tyrian did not. He was cut down in his prime. By my hand. The great regret of my life.

I drink deep; the sack warms my throat.

Tyrian’s son Alejandro looks very much like him. Are they alike in temperament, I wonder? Does Alejandro have his father’s vicious temper? His deadly ruthlessness? He seems to have something of Tyrian’s determination and persistence. Something of his arrogance. Similarities to a father he never knew. These things must be bred in the bone. 

Tomorrow, he will come back and ask again for me to sell him the painting. _‘It should be mine by right,’_ he’d said. There is a logic in that. He’s Tyrian’s son. His stepfather’s death has made him rich in land; it’s fitting that he should also take something of his father’s heritage into his new life as a landed magnate. Perhaps I should sell him the portrait.

The very thought makes me desolate. I drain the cup and pour again.

I think about Alejandro standing there this afternoon, looking up, seeing for the first time what his father looked like. He must realise how much he looks like him. What does he feel about that? He must wonder what kind of man Tyrian Persimmon was. Did his mother’s stories paint Tyrian as a hero, or a villain? Did she resent his long absences from her side? Did she know he didn’t love her?

I’ve been fortunate in my marriage. Catherine knows I love her. She knows, too, that sometimes I stray, but if she cares about that, she doesn’t show it. Catherine knows why I bought Tyrian’s portrait.

I think again of Alejandro, and imagine him and his father standing side by side. And then, a wicked thought curls into my mind, and I imagine Alejandro in my bed. Would he be a wild and unpredictable lover, like his father? 

Perhaps, when he asks me to name a price for the portrait, I should ask for his body. _Sleep with me, and I might consider selling it to you._ Would he do it? And if he did, what would it be like to sleep with the son of my old love? Would I try to imagine it was Tyrian, or would it be Alejandro himself that I saw as we joined?

Suddenly, the sack tastes sour in my mouth. I could no more ask him to trade his body for a painting than I could sell my own children into slavery. An unworthy thought.

I finish the cup. The jug is empty. I go to my bed, unhopeful of sleep. I do not know what Alejandro Persimmon and I will say to each other.

.  
.

It’s early afternoon when he returns. 

John Pigeon admits him to the house, and brings him to the library, where I’m waiting. 

Alejandro does not look at his father’s portrait when he comes in: he focuses all his attention on me. Businesslike. Unsentimental. 

“Welcome back, Master Persimmon,” I say. “Pray, be seated. Make yourself comfortable.”

He sits. He does not relax.

“Lord Gloria,” he says, “I’ve come to ask you once more: will you sell me the portrait of Tyrian Persimmon?”

“No. The painting is not for sale.”

Alejandro is silent for the space of two or three heartbeats. Then he says, “My lord, I’ve thought much about what you said to me yesterday. I appreciate that you’ve owned the portrait of my father for many years. I appreciate that you’re a collector of Master van der Heyden’s works. I’m a man of business; I understand the significance of these claims. So I appeal to you as one man of business to another: if you will sell this painting to me, I will pay you whatever price you name.”

I stand, and to slow the pace of the discussion, I pour two cups of wine and hand one to Alejandro. He sets it down beside him untasted. I sip from my own cup before I speak.

“Master Persimmon, as I have said to you before, this painting is not for sale. I will not name a price, because I have no intention of selling it. This painting belongs with van der Heyden’s other works, in a collection that will become part of England’s great cultural heritage.”

Alejandro bristles. “My lord, perhaps you think I’m a know-nothing from a provincial backwater? Someone who doesn’t appreciate art, who might be more inclined to see value in a fine war-horse or a new suit of armour? I assure you, Lord Gloria, I appreciate fully the worth of this picture in terms of its artistic value. Please don’t try to hoodwink me – I’m not a fool.” He stands, agitated, and turns for the first time toward the portrait. “This is a painting of my father – the father I was never able to know. It was commissioned by my mother and her family. It should be mine by right. Why would you want to keep it? My father is nothing to you!” 

“We were friends,” I say.

“Friends. Friends who then became enemies, fighting on opposite sides in a war.”

“Friends,” I insist. “The war put us on opposite sides, and we fought for our own countries as loyal men must do. If your father had survived, we would have been friends once again.”

With his temper heated, Alejandro looks more like Tyrian than ever. His eyes blaze, as Tyrian’s used to, and his skin is flushed. 

Suddenly I’m burning with longing – not for Alejandro, but for Tyrian, my friend and lover. If he’d lived, how would things stand between us now, these years later? Would he have dwindled into a faithful husband and father, and cast me off? Would we have quarrelled once too often and parted in rancour? Or would we still be rivals and lovers, sailing the seven seas?

When Alejandro speaks, his voice crackles with emotion. “Lord Gloria, I implore you. I will give you whatever price you name. Anything you desire. _Anything._ ”

A wild light is burning in his eyes, and I know that if I were to ask him to give himself to me, he would do it. But I will not ask. A man should not be asked to give himself in desperation. And I would not want him. The man I would want, I can’t have. He’s dead.

“Alejandro,” I say, using his name for the first time. “Your father was my great friend, and I’ve grieved for him since the day he died. Having his portrait helped to ease the grief, and I’ll grieve for it, too, when I lose it. But I see now that I must let it go.”

I look up at the painting. _Forgive me, Tyrian._

“I will sell you the painting, Alejandro. Make me an offer.”

His offer is fair, and we shake hands to seal the contract. We agree that he will return in three days to pay me, and I will have the painting boxed up ready to travel.


	4. Part Four: 1621

Master Hendrik van der Heyden is always a welcome guest in my house.

Lately, I’ve commissioned him to paint a wedding portrait for my daughter and her new husband. She has married well; he’s a steady lad who will be successful in business. He was trained by bankers in the Italian states, and he understands that money and trade will be the new mark of rich men, not land. 

Van der Heyden has been a good friend to me, advising me on paintings and introducing me to new artists of good reputation. “You can’t fill your collection up with my paintings alone!” he said to me once, years ago. “You must diversify.” He was right, of course. I commissioned paintings from many of the artists he introduced. My collection grows, and is spoken about by those who appreciate art for its own sake.

“I’ve been thinking of travelling into Europe,” I say to van der Heyden, as we sit on the terrace looking out over the Castle gardens. “I have a mind to visit the lands of the Elector Palatine, to see that portrait I used to own once more before I die.”

Van der Heyden raises an eyebrow. “I would not advise it, my lord. The Elector is at war with his neighbours.”

I sigh. “War. Once, I revelled in battle. I sought it out. I have this castle and my title because of my taste for war.”

“War is a young man’s game, my lord. I was not suited to it – I never carried a sword into battle myself – but I got rich on the proceeds of painting those who did.” Van der Heyden looks at me with that assessing gaze of his. Between him and Catherine, I have few secrets left. “You speak as if you’re about to die – but I see no evidence that your life’s coming to an end.”

I shrug. “I’m an old man, my friend. I have a notion to revisit some of the places and people who’ve shaped my life.”

Van der Heyden is frowning now. “I’ve never taken you for a sentimental fool, Lord Gloria. If you take my advice, you’ll stay out of Europe till things settle down.”

I fill up our wine glasses. Van der Heyden nods his thanks.

“Why do you want to go chasing after paintings you used to own, anyway? Do you regret selling it?”

“I regret not owning it. I don’t regret selling it. That was the right thing to do.” I pause. “I’ve felt curious about how Alejandro Persimmon turned out.”

“Be curious about your own children, my lord, not other people’s. That’s my advice,” van der Heyden growls. “Stay away from disappointment about things that you’ve had no control over. Keep your memories clean.”

“Well,” I say, “perhaps. Losing that painting was a blow; it was one of the jewels of my collection. Still, I have hopes that the collection will stay intact after I’m gone. My sons appreciate its significance, and who knows? It may be that at some future time ‘The Man in Purple’ can be brought back into the Gloria collection.”

Van der Heyden grunts. “Who can say? But if Alejandro Persimmon and his descendants are as hard-nosed as his father was, your descendants will have to steal it.”

 

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the reigns of Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, and James I, skilled painters flocked to the English Court to paint the monarchs, their families, and other influential people of the time. Hendrik van der Heyden is a fictional character, loosely based on several Flemish painters who frequented the English Court.


End file.
